The night Ian Finch slept beside a Cherokee grave, he didn’t take a photograph. He had walked twenty-eight kilometres that day along the Trail of Tears, the 1,200-mile forced relocation route that killed four thousand Cherokee people in 1838. The ground was cold. The light was failing. And somewhere near his tent lay bones that had never made it to Oklahoma.
He put his camera away. Some moments, he had learnt, are not for documenting. They are for witnessing.
Ian Finch is a Royal Marine turned expedition guide and photographer whose work now sits at the intersection of wilderness and memory. His assignments have taken him to the Yukon, across Maasai grazing lands, and deep into northern Minnesota’s moose country. But it was the Cherokee project—years in the making, built on patience and permission—that changed what he thought storytelling could do.
He didn’t grow up dreaming of indigenous history. His first teacher was his father, who took him fishing on misty mornings in the English countryside. Those trips taught him stillness. How to read water. How to be quiet long enough to see what was there. Later, the Royal Marines taught him something else: how to endure cold, carry weight, and move through landscapes that did not care whether you survived them. Four years in the Commandos, including Arctic training in Norway, gave him resilience. But it also planted a question he couldn’t shake: what came after the uniform?
The answer arrived slowly. A chance encounter at Kendal Mountain Festival led to his first brand photography commission. He almost didn’t pitch. Imposter syndrome, he calls it—the voice that says you don’t belong in the room. But he circled the yurt where the outdoor brands were meeting, walked in, and asked if anyone needed a photographer. Someone did. That break became a career.
Still, Ian’s work was never just about beautiful images. The Cherokee Trail of Tears project began with a conversation, not a contract. He spent years building trust with the Cherokee Nation, learning when to speak and—more importantly—when not to. The resulting expedition was published in Sidetracked Magazine, but the real story wasn’t the miles. It was the weight of walking a route where thousands had died, where the land itself held grief.
Our input is limited. The most powerful thing we can do is listen.
— Ian Finch
That philosophy now shapes his current project: Moose Tracks Underwater, a documentary exploring the collapse of Minnesota’s moose population. Fifteen years ago, the northern herds were stable. Today, warming winters have created a crisis. Moose carry tens of thousands of winter ticks—parasites that drain blood, trigger stress, and often kill the animal. The documentary follows Seth Moore, a biologist working with the Grand Portage Band of Chippewa, whose people have hunted moose for generations. For them, this is not just conservation. It is survival.
Ian films the work—tagging, tracking, measuring—but he also films the silence. The moments when Moore stands in the forest and sees what is missing. The moose are dying quietly, and with them, a way of life. Climate change, Ian has learnt, does not arrive as a headline. It arrives as absence.
His approach to photography has shifted over the years. Early in his career, the camera was everything. Now, he knows it can become a barrier—a pane of glass between you and the experience. On some expeditions, he leaves it behind entirely. Adventure, he says, is brain presence. It is cooking outdoors, moving slowly, feeling cold. It is not the Instagram post. It is the thing you do when no one is watching.
That belief shapes his guiding work, too. Through Walk Wild, Ian leads groups into the Lake District and Scottish Highlands, teaching not skills but presence. He tells people to leave their phones in their packs. To spend a night under the stars close to home. To stop chasing distance and start chasing depth.
In this conversation.
We go into the years Ian spent negotiating access to Cherokee land, the moment he realised the expedition wasn’t about him, and the thank-you he received from the Cherokee Nation that made him understand why he does this work. We hear about the first time he saw a moose die from tick infestation, the pressure of filming in -30°C conditions, and the question Seth Moore asked that Ian still can’t answer: what happens when the moose are gone? Ian also reflects on imposter syndrome, the myth of the fearless adventurer, and why he believes microadventures—done properly—can be more transformative than flying to Patagonia.
Call to adventure.
Ian’s challenge is simple: choose a place within an hour of your home. It could be the Lake District, the Highlands, or a patch of woodland you’ve never spent the night in. Leave your phone in your pack. Spend two days moving slowly—cooking outdoors, sleeping under the stars, being fully present. Adventure is not measured in distance. It is measured in immersion. Go somewhere close, and stay long enough to feel it.
Pay it forward.
Ian supports Brain Tumour Research charities in memory of his friend Andy Jones, whose death reminded him that time is the one resource we cannot renew. Donations fund critical research and provide hope for families living with diagnoses that have no cure. Ian also champions the Royal Marines Association, which helps veterans navigate the often brutal transition from military to civilian life—a crossing he knows well.
About Ian.
Ian Finch is a former Royal Marines Commando, expedition photographer, and founder of Walk Wild, which leads immersive wilderness experiences across the UK. His work has been published in Sidetracked Magazine and focuses on the intersection of adventure, indigenous culture, and environmental change. He is currently completing Moose Tracks Underwater, a documentary on climate collapse in northern Minnesota. He was taught to fish by his father and still believes the best adventures happen close to home.
When Ian returned from the Cherokee Trail of Tears, someone from the Nation sent him a message. It said: this is why you do what you do. He didn’t reply straight away. He sat with it. Because sometimes the story isn’t yours to tell—it’s yours to carry. And that, Ian has learnt, is enough.
